


Argentine Tango

by belana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fandom Kombat 2014, Gen, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:03:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4200180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belana/pseuds/belana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>if a woman desires something she'll get it no matter the cost. For Natasha Romanoff the new SHIELD operation in Argentina means not only a ruined weekend and an opportunity to disarm a man trading military secrets, but also a chance to settle some scores. If only said scores don't settle her first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Аргентинское танго](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/122895) by MParker. 



_One doesn't have to be an Argentinian to tango well. Anyone can do it if he does it right._

_Fabian Salas_

 

" _Uno, dos, tres_..."

An old _bandoneon_ sighed and started a conversation with a guitar about the world of sentiments and hidden parts of the soul. Sometimes the rhythm prevailed, sometimes became second to the tango theme.

A man caught a woman's eye and nodded discreetly inviting her to dance. A barely there movement of eyes, lips, head — the woman waited, the woman called out. Without breaking the eye contact the man came closer and stopped. Step. Turn. Stop. Step, step, step. Endless variations and improvisations, a dialog of moves and glances. A music of feet when a man and a woman become one.

Conversations and clatter of heels on the pedestrian Lavalle street flowed around a patch of four square meters near the mall. Tourists gathered around the tango dancers taking pictures with smartphones and tablets held high up. Nineteen screens simultaneously showed a pair of dancers.

The twentieth screen showed the street behind the spectators. A lazy smile on the tourist's face didn't match his glare from under the black baseball cap. The tail was twenty meters away: the smaller man was duly eyeing the souvenirs, the other one with a square jaw and aquiline nose (that must have been the nature's idea of a joke) was pretending to read text on his phone leaning on a wall. Ramiro cursed silently and once again pushed the 'reverse camera' icon. It looked like he wouldn't be able to slip away quietly.

He stepped away from the circle of spectators captured by the dance and blended easily into the crowd crawling along the line of boutiques and restaurants. They wouldn't try to capture him here, there were too many witnesses and obstacles, they'd also want to follow him to the kill point. If one kills the fox close to the ravaged hen-house one will never know who was left in the fox den. The 'fox' smirked delighted: the hen-house was poorly guarded, the information and snapshots cheered him up.

 _Alright,_ Ramiro conceded feeling two stares on the back of his head, _the hen-house was well guarded, but it didn't help them much._

He walked a couple of meters calculating escape routes, then leisurely entered the nearest shop and ducked out of it several minutes later with a bag. He turned around the corner with the crowd, hurried up and doubled back through an alleyway. The 'civilized' Buenos Aires didn't look much better than New York, why was Fury so sentimental about it? The love of grid layout was fine until a decent fox had to dodge and escape. Hong Kong or any endless bazaar in the Middle East were so much better in that respect, it was easy to get lost there. As the memory meticulously provided: _sometimes when you didn't mean to_.

The pair tailing him didn't run ahead or fall behind, they followed him at a distance occasionally fading into the crowd. Several minutes later after each change of direction and turn around the block Ramiro noticed the familiar silhouettes out of the corner of the eye again. The blue sign 'Subte' caught his eye, the wrought-iron railings opened onto a staircase leading to the subway. Under the cover of a bus Ramiro dived underground and jumped onto the passing train going west from Retiro railway terminal. He stole a glace around. The familiar Square Jaw was riding in the next carriage. A couple of stops later a pleasant female voice again announced, " _Proxima parada._..", but a man's shoe prevented the doors from closing. Ramiro sprang out of the train and headed to the connection with line E either hurrying up or down the stairs or slowing down to monitor the crowd.

After fifteen minutes of dodging around the city the feeling of a stare drilling into the back of his head subsided, then faded completely. To be absolutely sure Ramiro circled around the square, visited a local bistro where he donated his cap to the trash bin and took a jacket out of his bag. He calmed down, returned to the small park where he left the bike and headed for the hotel. At a crossroads a flashing yellow light changed into red. Ramiro stopped in the left lane and absentmindedly watched the little green man wave his legs on the pedestrians' crossing light in time with the countdown. A huge Range Rover appeared from the street on the right and hit the brakes blocking the crossroads. Ramiro started the bike's engine and steered around it barely missing a farmer's sedan on the oncoming lane and almost crashing into a truck.

"I'm so fed up with you! You have a compass always pointing my way or what?" Ramiro muttered angrily, made a U-turn and drove off to the highway. The black car didn't slow down, it even gained on him a little. Ramiro glanced back: the car was still tailing him crossing several lanes at a time. The situation resembled the aforementioned fox hunt. Heavens only knew where the huntsmen were hiding.

"What a nerve you've got! What if I try this..." Ramiro slowed a little and allowed the pursuers to come closer. Three. Two. One. Right before the entrance to the overhead road he sharply turned back onto the lower road and gloated watching the Range Rover ride up as there was no other way. The tires screeched somewhere overhead.

God bless hills and stairs — every single step! He rattled down to the pedestrian crossing, frightened fat listless pigeons on the parking lot and toppled off the curb onto the road again.

 

* * *

 

To hell with these southern melodrama! The transport will arrive in eight hours, but the Uruguay option seemed more and more wholesome with every passing minute (a ferry to Colonia del Sacramento and a bus to Montevideo).

Well, bye-bye, good old boy Miguel Sanchez, rest in peace with your passport in the hidden backpack pocket. Hello, equally good old boy Roger Fowles. Contact lenses turned chocolate brown eyes into steely grey. Hair became chestnut of color.

Ramiro slung a small backpack over his shoulders, grabbed the keys from the bed and looked one more time around the room. On the second flight of stairs he jerked and froze: porter's indignant shriek about 'outsiders' and 'respectable hotel' reached his ears. Ramiro quietly backed away like a crab and stepped into the corridor. He darted into the room: the familiar Range Rover and another Jeep were visible through the window.

The firefighters could have been proud: no one ever studied the fire escape routes out of the hotel so carefully. In his mind's eye thin lines spread from room 204 over every staircase, elevator, fire escape from the roof on the outer wall (a tourist with a suitcase won't be able to jump, but a trained agent just might). Ramiro carefully opened a window in the end of the corridor and jumped. On instinct he grabbed the cold railing.

The first ten meters to the roof were pure luck, the last part of the way was fueled by adrenaline after hearing barks from below. Ramiro pushed up. Something whizzed close to his head, brick fragments flew in his face. He climbed onto the roof without stopping and visualized the neighborhood. There was point A where he was standing and point B where he needed to be. The idea was not to lose the straight line between A and B, one should ignore every obstacle, be it streets below, fences, walls or garages. Ramiro ran, jumped to the roof of the next building, landed, rolled over and stood up. No one was following him, but the feeling of a stare drilling a hole in the back of his head didn't go away. The sound of a distant police car coming closer cheered him up: no one wanted the fuss. Ramiro climbed onto the roof of the second building in this street, jumped onto the annex a floor below and started down the fire escape.

The lowest staircase ended three meters above the ground, but there was a push-up ladder. Ramiro jumped off, looked up and dived into the labyrinth of backstreets and alleyways starting formatting of the memory card and resetting the phone.

A dead-end had a metal fence. Grey sheets were welded together and covered in graffiti that was barely readable because of strange fonts. Ramiro jumped up, grabbed the upper edge and pulled himself up — the gravity did the rest.

Square Jaw and three others were patiently waiting for him on the other side. Ramiro didn't have time to draw a weapon, so he dived under the fist of one attacker, kicked the other one hard. Instead of hitting the wall as was expected, the second attacker stepped back, shook his head like a dog and charged again.

 

* * *

 

The telephone kept ringing shrilly doing almost as much damage to the brain as an arrow with explosive arrow-head. Barton sat up and looked over Natasha's sleeping form. The smartphone on the bedside table vibrated and glowed.

"If you answer that, I'll shoot you," Natasha promised grimly without opening her eyes.

"Only two people can call me at this hour: my armourer from Edinburgh and Coulson. Who do you bet on?"

Natasha sighed loudly, found the phone and threw it onto the bed.

"You can tell them that agent Romanoff changed her phone number, name, gender, and has gone AWOL."

She felt the bed sink under Barton's weight even in slumber.

"I see. What?"

Barton's calm voice lulled her almost back to sleep, but the usual questions were still there.

"Where and when?"

It was official then: their day off was over. But Coulson, heavens send him more agents and fewer terrorists, didn't care much about this Yaroslavna's lament. He was a true workaholic without a family, nothing could be done about it. Maybe she'll get a day off later. Natasha absentmindedly imagined that she asked days off for all ruined weekends, packed a dress, a swim suit and a gun (but only one!) and spent a whole week at a Bora Bora beach. With the phone turned off!

Her sleepy mind went into overdrive and envisioned Barton in a beach chair nearby: a rum cocktail in one hand, the shirt undone revealing the treasure trail.

Then agent Romanoff allowed herself to break away from the dreams of Southern isles and smoothly move to other, less relaxing, but hotter ones.

"Wake up, sleeping beauty," Barton whispered into her ear.

He laid a trail of kisses from her earlobe down to her neck, it fitted the dream perfectly.

"Come on, sleeping beauty. There are bad news and good news." He continued to wake her up sliding the coverlet off her.

"Give me the good one first," Natasha sighed finally opening her eyes.

"The weather in Buenos Aires is beautiful today."

 

* * *

 

The smaller war room of the SHIELD headquarters could seat as many as thirty people, but in reality very rarely more than ten people gathered here. Large-scale operations were discussed in the great room. Now there were only five people sitting across from Nick Fury.

Natasha waited intently for the beginning of the briefing and put her delicate hands on the grey tabletop like a schoolgirl, a studious student on the exam on world military conflicts. Barton sat on her right as was his habit.

The head of the hit squad was attentive and grave, but unlike the sixth level agents he, alas, couldn't measure the degree of the problem. So for now Anderson just knit bushy dark eyebrows and tuned in for another operation in another war zone. This was the usual stuff, only the target and the weather changed. The first was to be neutralized, the second was to be taken into consideration.

Hans being one of the best IT specialists looked like a young Nazi: he had with a crew cut and wore British army boots. Even Fury was not entirely sure if ‘Hans’ was a name, a surname or a nickname that stuck to the ex-hacker for good (and he knew all the personnel profiles almost by heart).

It was another Sunday morning serving the country. Or the world. Or the new technology. At worst — Coulson and their guilty conscience.

Fury glanced heavily around the room and turned his attention to the holographic display.

"Gabriel Martelli..."

He pushed a button — a video started playing. A cream-colored Lexus, a grey Armani suit, black hair and olive skin. Sleek lion walked around his savannah. Creatures like him usually had money. A lot of money.

"He’s an Argentinean of Italian descent, impresario and art lover. His father moved from countryside to Buenos Aires during the 1950s with several hundred pesos and arrogance of an emperor of a small country. Despite all the economic shocks and upheavals he managed to make a significant amount of money first in trade, later in manufacturing and selling of farming machinery and electric equipment. After his father's death Gabriel Martelli took charge of the family business. The fact that said business survived the crisis of the zeroes speaks volumes. It also tells us that the man caters not only to the local market. Judging by the information gathered by our agents he went even further than his father in diversification of business."

Another click, and new videos started playing. Dark-skinned bearded and beardless men walked, talked, drove Jeeps into the jungle, fiercely preached something to the camera and rattled guns.

"Drug cartel, Revolutionary Armed Forces of Columbia, Peruan _Sendero Luminoso_ , Tupac Amary Revolutionary Movement — these seemingly random organizations have a common denominator. Apart from the continent and violent tendencies."

"Let me guess: the gun trail leads to Gabriel Martelli." Barton raised an eyebrow.

"Correct. He sells FMCG, so to say: popular guns, explosives and the like. Lately, though, the Latin-American sandbox became too small for him. Our agents intercepted a couple of very curious weapon samples in the Middle East. Moreover, he expands his connections."

Fury switched to another video and nodded at the display. It was not Hollywood-worth footage, but it was unlikely that someone put in there an archive marked _Strictly confidential_ without Fury's knowledge. On the photos men with well-cared-for and severe faces were replaced by lean military officers in uniforms without insignia. Martelli's last partner was not very young, bald, hook-nosed and had a belly of a high cuisine lover.

"Half of this list falls into the category 'Many people want to see them in jail, but don't have enough proof': Yonause, Tripke, Jacobson. Some of them trade in arms, some — in technology. This one, Henry Matthews," Fury nodded at the hook-nosed man, "used to participate in scientific government research."

"Do we assume that Martelli wants to expand his business somewhere else?" Natasha asked crossing her hands on the table and earning a stare from Barton.

"Maybe," Fury said. "Our agent managed to pass us the information before his death."

Barton looked down and quietly asked Coulson who was sitting next to him, "Who was it?"

Without turning his head Coulson answered barely audibly, "Ramiro Ilvarez."

Barton whistled quietly. Two medals of honor that only colleagues and bosses knew about because officially neither missions existed. Ilvarez had three bullet holes and a marriage that quietly dissipated between missions to Bulgaria and Chad. He loved bike rides into Los Angeles nights and was willing to travel half across the world after a single phone call. His was an ordinary story of an ordinary good guy with a fascinating and dirty job. So much like Barton's.

Now it became clear why the headquarters looked like a stirred up terrarium. Fury managed to burn holes in everyone not just with his eye, but with his eye patch too hovering over the table like a black rattlesnake. Judging by the cold gaze Coulson, calm as a python, wanted to strangle someone. In these circumstances even Barton was wary of making the higher-ups mad. Hans, though, had already forgotten how fast his initial response of "Fuck off, you, government dogs!" changed into "Yes, sir!" after a single conversation with Coulson.

"Someone ran out of luck," Hans said leaning back in his chair. "Where does that leave us?"

Fury stared at the hacker long and hard.

"You are left with a trip under the hot sun of Argentina and a break-in into the server with the five-level security of the next generation."

Hans straightened feeling uncomfortable.

"Now we turn to the goal of the operation. Martelli’s plants are situated in the industrial zone between Buenos Aires and Rosario. We are interested in this one."

He pointed a finger into the display: the plant territory was surrounded by a high wall with the razor wireon top. The roofs of production and engineeringbuildings were visible over the entry gate. The pictures changed to satellite view.

"If we can find something interesting, it's here. The plant server was completely isolated until today. Considering the fact that our art lover has more and more deals and contacts, the time is running out. He organized the only terminal at home. Martelli has advanced security, and hard drives have a self-destruct button. Now, the reason of such a hurry is the following: in two days Martelli organizes a reception in his house celebrating the opening of a new plant. His new and old acquaintances, all the local business _beau monde_ will be there. It will be a big party."

Fury stopped and stared at Natasha. She raised an eyebrow questioningly. If you own boss looks at you like that the thing is probably not about the tousled hair.

"Our target has curious tastes: he likes tall blondes and redheads."

Hans smirked earning another glare — from Coulson this time.

"Coulson?" Fury turned the floor over to him.

"Barton, you and Romanoff will go to the party as Mr. Todd, a representative of a British company _Credane Industries_ , plus one. Plus one is his lovely wife," Coulson nodded at Natasha.

Natasha looked at her ‘loving husband’: a Buddhist mask of calmness slipped off his face, he looked dazed and interested. The Romanoff-and-Barton duo appeared on the battlefield often enough to become a nuisance to all the terrorists and law enforcement officers in this life and the next one. It was their habit since that first time when after acclimatization and heart-to-heart talks with Fury and Phil she was partnered with Barton for the mission. It was the probation period for her: the first attempt of escape could have easily turned into jail time. In theory.

That mission was not a probation, but a punishment for Barton. He never breathed a word about in back in Baghdad, but Natasha knew. If she turned her gun the other way or tried to flee she would not have survived to see the secret tribunal or a cell, her comfy home for the next thirty years. She would have been left with an arrow in her heart somewhere in the outskirts of Kadhimiya. She wondered if Fury knew that the only thing keeping her put that July was not the fear of death, but the ridiculously unflappable archer Clinton Francis Barton who didn't even think that she could betray him.

"The operation consists of two stages," Coulson continued pulling Natasha out of unbidden flashback. "During the party you need to hack into Martelli's computer and download the data. The second target is the plant. It's unwise, though, to go there without an access card and the information about the security system. I've sent you all the details. You have three hours."

"Lock and load," Natasha said as usual and stood up.

"Right, with the S.H.I.E.L.D. or on the S.H.I.E.L.D.," Hans replied in tune.

Barton wisely swallowed the comment he had and smiled like an alligator. When almost everyone left Coulson put a hand on Hans' shoulder.

"Stay for a minute, please," he smiled politely.


	2. Chapter 2

_If you wake up in the morning and nothing hurts, you are dead._

_Unknown tango teacher_

Natasha threw electronic gloves on the table and started packing the bag. Extra magazines and tactical mini fills went into the side pocket, mission suit, the first aid kit… Wait, where is the first aid kit? She absentmindedly opened the kit again and checked the contents: all-purpose antidote, surgical pocket dressing cases, antibiotics, pain killers, tourniquet. A thin garrote went into the inside pocket, later it would end up in her sleeve. Without thinking Natasha took comfortable high-heeled shoes out of the box, put them into the bag and hung it on the closet handle.

Henry Matthews… aka Felix Gruenner… _Twenty fucking years._ Fate had a sick sense of humor. You go beyond and above yourself to find him on three continents, the outcome is nill. Once you stop, the superiors give you his address and photos on a silver platter and send you on a mission with the best wishes. ‘This is your new mark, agent Romanoff. Bring us the information, agent Romanoff.’ _I will, of course, I  will. And I’ll bring a souvenir: ears in a box, a head under the arm. Sorry, boss, this sort of happened_.

If everything goes right, the bottom line will be one settled score and maybe two unpleasant conversations. Three, including one with Fury, but Natasha could bribe her way out of the trouble with him. That German diplomat shouldn’t have left documents unattended. Even at home. Especially if they weren’t supposed to be there in the first place. Coulson and Clint, though… Natasha sighed and tried to forget about her uneasy conscience. It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission, after all.

It was a pity that it was not possible to raise some hell with Barton and run away into the sunset. Such adventures with valuable human resources aren’t easy to come by, the higher-ups tend to be touchy about this topic. The more the higher-ups think the more they want to keep said resources alive and well. Some of them don’t arrive to prisons and end up in cozy research centers. _They must have those damned research centers, mustn’t they?_ Right. Everyone does. And everyone wants to have more valuable human resources.

If memory served her right, in the Red Room complex situated in the middle of Irkutsk region human resources were well-loved and carefully tended to – like choice carrots.

 

* * *

 

There was an individual approach, constant surveillance, food supplements and pills for focusing attention. You returned to your room in the evenings, fell onto the bed and stared at the white ceiling with two fluorescent lamps. There was only one day off lately. It was called ‘an electricity break-down’.

There were twenty girls in the class. _TICKs_ , Olga used to laugh. _Tactical and Intelligence Combat soldiers of KGB_. It was a little worse than yesterday’s _Killers in Training_ and even younger _WASPs, Wannabe Spies_. It was Olga’s little revenge: she hated spiders, the nickname _Black Widows_ made her cringe. Olga wrinkled her turned-up freckled nose and almost stuck out her tongue at Colonel Voronov’s back. Vilena shrugged and mumbled something about ‘kids in kindergarten’. She was two years older than the rest of them and came to the facility during the second month of training, in October, when the morning cross-country run began before the sunrise and the Colonel’s heartfelt speech with history titbits became a distant memory.

Fifty percent of all classes became individual at the beginning of that year. It was self-sufficiency in action. Only during the other fifty percent of classes one could remember that there were other people at the facility apart from coaches, doctors and men in suits too much like military uniforms that occasionally drifted behind the glass.

The three of them became friends quite suddenly. Natasha used to joke that decent enemies were a rarity one should cherish. After the first six months the result was somewhat positive: they didn’t kill each other. The score included one rib cracked during a sparring, one dislocated shoulder and a number of bruises during the latest qualification fight ‘three VS three’. During the said fight they gained seven points out of seven, and they eyed each other with appreciation after and waited for Voronov and blame storming. In the evening they drank illegal vodka from a tiny flask. Then quickly covered their tracks and stared innocently into the caretaker’s eyes.

There were other days and nights: the first mission (Olga covered the rear, Natasha went in first), the first battle injury and not the first, but still so very exciting sex with the facility guard and a promise to embody their nickname ‘Black Widow’ if he ever breathed a word about it to his cronies. The wild period was short, in retrospect Natasha realized that they were given a chance to have a fling before the main stage of the training began.

Gruenner turned up in August. His heavyset figure loomed up in the glass office next to Voronov. This beak-nosed penguin didn’t look like a scientist, but sector D where he headed after the conversation had only labs in it.

They were chosen for their fitness. And something that good could be made better. There was yet another exhilarating cocktail for ‘higher scores’ and isolated cubicle for barrel fever when you want to either get drunk or murder someone. There were three shots of medicine and constant heartbeat and blood pressure monitoring.

Olga was sitting on the hospital bed lazily swinging her booted foot. Vilena was lying with her hands behind her head and had been studying the ceiling for the last ten minutes. The ceiling was boring and depressing, but so were the beds and the bathroom behind a door.

Natasha sneaked past the guards and knocked on the thick anti-armour glass attracting their attention.

 _Shammer_ , Olga mouthed from the other side of the glass.

Natasha made a face, pretended to cough, gave them a thumbs-up and then carefully returned to the air shaft grille. She jumped up, climbed up and slithered into the air shaft. The grille went to its original place.

There was another hour until the light out. This time could be used for studying American security systems or fifty new words in French. Natasha dreamed of Volkov talking about American motion sensors in French and acidly promising to talk in Japanese if they didn’t pay attention. Vilena and Natasha listened gravely, the only thing they knew of Japanese was _seppuku_ that Volkov threatened them with. Olga drawled gloomily that it didn’t matter to her, French wasn’t much better.

In the morning Natasha crawled into the cold shower and started the cross-country run. The jogging turned into a shooting practice and attention and memory training. Faces on the monitor changed, figures passed in front of her fading into a kaleidoscope. Skipping a figure that appeared twice led to minor electric shock. Natasha tried to get all irrelevant thoughts out of her head and concentrated. She felt like a Pavlov’s dog.

Olga and Vilena didn’t come to dinner. Natasha spared a sympathetic glance at the double doors to the labs. Boosting cocktails were no _Cuba Libre_ , rather they were Molotov cocktails that one had to drink. There were a couple of girls from the class and several older ones. During the sparring Natasha vindictively undercut Elenka from the parallel class and finished a series of punches with a hold. She had weird dreams that night. Almost shapeless dark silhouette sat on her bed. It looked at her, called her ‘shammer’, invited her to walk on the attic floor and swing in the cobweb.

In the morning after the sparring Natasha wiggled her way to the far side of the sleeping quarters. Olga’s bed was made. There was no hair brush on the bedside-table, no clothes in the closet. Natasha raised an eyebrow staring into the closet as if it could explain who removed all the scant belongings that the cadets were allowed to have (Regulations chapter four-E slash whatever). The closet humbly stayed silent. Natasha closed the door and peaked into Olga’s hiding place. Pictures and a couple of letters were still there.

_Curiouser and curiouser._

 

* * *

 

“Cadets Filonova and Tiron were moved to K2 base yesterday.” As per usual Voronov stared at them unblinking like a boa constrictor.

Natasha froze, the question she had didn’t make it past her lips.

“The next training course is individual and will be divided into assignments. I advise you to go to sleep, tomorrow we’ll start a new module.”

Voronov returned to his folder making it clear that the audience was over. Natasha turned around silently cursing, went to the living quarters and flopped on the bed. _Hell no_.

She didn’t wait for nightfall. The night maybe a friend to lovers, but Natasha wasn’t so sure about spies: the night security measures bordered on paranoia, the number of guards was doubled, empty rooms made even a fly look suspicious. Why risk it? The main thing was to keep away from the cameras in the north corridor and choose the right moment to climb on the roof.

The air ducts stretched throughout the whole complex like veins, but Petrova once ran into the motion sensors in the passage between buildings, everyone preferred not to go there afterwards. Natasha chuckled into the greyish white depth of the corridor and felt for a thin cord that she ‘borrowed’ during the latest sparring just in case. Elenka and Petrova could sit and pout on their beds, motion sensors were no obstacle for a creative person.

Natasha climbed onto the outer wall of the third floor and quietly crawled up the fire escape to the roof where the guard was. _Eins, zwei, drei!_ She carefully skirted around the figure shuttling to and fro, ran crouching to the north building, fixed the cord at the air duct exit. Cadet Romanova never complained about her gymnastics technique, never even heard anyone do so.

When five minutes later she crawled in the shaft trying not to make too much noise in the sharp turns her head was unusually empty, thoughts appeared and went away at random. Box A was dark and empty, standard beds rose like vague stone lumps from the tiled floor.

Suddenly voices started coming closer. One of them definitely belonged to Voronov, Natasha froze forgetting to breathe. She exhaled slowly and then breathed in. The voices stopped somewhere to the left beyond the wall. _Shit._ Natasha bit her lip and crawled further to the grille.

“You guaranteed that the problem was eliminated,” Voronov hissed evenly, “that I won’t have to scrape the control group off the walls like the previous one.”

The top of Voronov’s head appeared under the grille.

“No such luck,” the bald head crowned with wisps of dark hair objected calmly.

“One kicked the bucket during the second stage, the other had to be discarded – is this your idea of super results in super soldier project, comrade?”

Natasha was just lying there and listening letting the words float over her. The group consisted of three people. Only one of them didn’t come down with fever during the first day. Natasha pressed her hot forehead to the cold metal grille and stared at Gruenner’s bald head below.

“Comrade Voronov,” Gruenner sounded surprised. “Can’t you spare a dozen of lab rats for the success of our business? I agree, the last batch of the drug needs some… tweaking. I agree the rats were easy on the eye. But we’re two steps away from success!”

The bald head jerked enthusiastically.

“We reach the goal through a mine field. This was just a minor side effect, I’ll get rid of it in the next series of experiments.”

“A couple more of such ‘little side effects’, comrade Gruener, and you’ll have to explain yourself to my superiors.”

Cadet Romanova dully thought she could exchange her kidney for a gun with a silencer at that moment. The rest of her body too – she wouldn’t be able to shoot Voronov.

The ‘medical support program’ was altered during the next two weeks. Gruenner disappeared from the complex the next day.


	3. Chapter 3

_Argentine tango is physics, chemistry and geometry._

_Enrique Santos Discepolo_

 

If you had a bright idea to travel from New York to Buenos Aires you must be prepared. Two hours for check-in and passport control. Ten and a half hours in the sky till the landing in the Ezeiza airport. Pins and needles in your legs. Snoring of the neighbour on the left. Full family history of the nice old lady on your right. Supper, breakfast, drinks and movies from the golden age of Hollywood as a bonus. In the end you could console yourself that a journey to Sidney takes twenty two hours.

S.H.I.E.L.D. eliminated the check-in stage and allowed (encouraged, more like) to carry aboard their aircraft such an arsenal that would have made the Customs reach their yearly target in confiscation of arms. As for entertainments on board, only briefing materials and the final run of the mission were on offer.

Despite the misgivings the final run went surprisingly well. Natasha frowned a little. She was not superstitious despite Barton’s digs. It was purely healthy Russian pessimism. And a pessimist is just a well-informed optimist. Everything seemed to go as planned which meant that some higher-ups withheld a great deal of information. It is easier to get a punch on the nose from fate during the final run than get a solid one from it during the operation.

Natasha sighed and took a seat next to Barton. The plane wasn't a Boeing by any stretch, but the seats were surprisingly cozy. Oh wonder. Even Anderson with his 1m 95sm didn't resemble a folding tape measure. Well — Natasha spared him a glance — he kind of did, but looked rather comfortable. Agents Trent and Solinski sat a little down the plane.

Even hum of the engines, Barton's steady breaths worked like good sleeping pills, Natasha drifted off. On the far end of the plane Hans was cheerfully typing on a laptop grinning like a happy vampire in the blue light of the screen.

The target was seven hours away.

 

* * *

 

"So, how much time does it take for you to hack a computer when I'd plug you in?" Natasha repeated narrowing her eyes.

Full mission kit including two guns and power gloves was in the bag lying on the bed, but civilian clothes didn't make her any less deadly. Hans fidgeted under Natasha's gaze and lamely tried to smooth down his hair.

"Fifteen, twenty minutes. We need to leave no trace and download the whole archive! They have many security measures according to our less fortunate friend. I checked it again."

"What will I be doing in the room all the while? With the guard behind the door? The mark will be able to miss the access card at any moment."

"Well, you could seduce Martelli and make him invite you to his house later, and when he'd fall asleep..." Hans mumbled.

"You know, you don't have to go to the party. You'll sit in the van all the time," Natasha said calmly.

"So what? Do you think that I'll pick my nose?" Hans scowled hiding his insecurities.

Somehow he only then realized that black widows in their natural habitat were deadly species. Mainly for males not agile or quick-witted enough.

"My friend, a couple of bruises and a black eye wouldn't prevent you from going you job," Natasha said coming closer.

"It's okay, Nat, we'll think of something," Clint said and put a hand on her shoulder. "As if this is the first time."

"Park-bench strategist, part-time pimp," Natasha scolded Hans good-naturedly and went to the table with a 3D projection of Martelli's house. She sat down, tidied her hair and studied the projection.

Barton stepped from behind her back and looked at the monitor leaning on the table close to Natasha.

"Zoom in this bit."

She turned the model around and showed upper levels and the roof.

"How much time do you need to get out?"

"A minute or two."

"Alright, if anything goes sideways we'll get you out."

 

* * *

 

There was an electricity glitch in Mr. Martelli's palazzo Tuesday morning. Indoor generators were activated as expected, no worries. All systems worked as usual, two electricians came and fixed the broken wire, changed the automatic cutout and left within an hour.

"Done! Don't miss the show. Live feed from security cameras — only today and tomorrow." Relieved Hans sat back and took off a baseball cap with a logo. "Hey, Barton, forget your nest, get over here!"

Barton shook his head exasperated, attached the bag with instruments on the belt of the electrician's jumpsuit and climbed down. The bugs were set, the switchboard was fixed — the prep stage was over.

Jokes about the nest became a classic within three months of his coming to S.H.I.E.L.D. The brightest ones tried to joke even after that. He could conduct a survey. Five years ago Wilhelm Tell and Robin Hood were the most popular nicknames, once in a while someone remembered that Hawkeye actually came from James Fennimore Cooper's books. Then _The Lord of the Rings_ was released into the movie theaters. The only thing that stopped the new wave of attempts at humour was Barton's stony face that had nothing to do with light-footed Elven archer Legolas, but reminded everyone of a bad-tempered Nazgul.

 

* * *

 

Every respectable social event with a buffet must start after 8 p.m. so the guests had enough time to chat, drink, dance, rest and enjoy the food.

Natasha touched up the make-up and looked into the huge bathroom mirror. The dress was perfect, it made her pale skin and red hair glow. Low neckline, high slit on the hip and soft fabric allowed her to flip backwards or to walk the eaves.

Natasha sighed. Occasional walks on the eaves in an evening dress were a harsh reality for her which most designers didn't take into account. An ordinary Russian woman never knows how her evening will end, so she gets ready for everything and puts her evening make-up kit into the bag. This is even more true for an ordinary Russian spy. The last evening dress was destroyed on a mission to Belgrad in an uneven fight for a curious briefcase — for the U.S. greater glory. The U.S. won, as was expected. Minus a dress, of course.

At first Fury tried to complain about some of the bills, but Coulson defended his agent. A lady from the _monde_ (or _demimonde_ ) who wants to get acquainted with powerful men can't be wearing a forty-dollar prom dress on a mission.

"Needs must," Coulson convinced the boss without a second thought and picked a printed and signed copy of Natasha's credit card expenses from Fury's hand.

"If you say so," Fury agreed amicably.

Today's choice was suitable for both the party and the fight. Natasha wanted to refrain from fighting since the centerpiece of the operation was to be the break-in into the plant. Now she had to go quietly like a cat on velvet paws. She took a necklace out of a gift box (it was a small token of gratitude from a tycoon she saved long ago) and stepped into the living room.

"Help me please." She turned her back to the sofa putting the necklace against her skin.

Barton stopped checking his equipment and looked his partner's delicate figure up and down appreciatively. His interest was strictly professional, of course.

Natasha let her hair down covering the neck. She turned around, touched satin lapels of Barton's tuxedo and looked him in the eye. Then she winked, slowly and mesmerizingly.

"Hans, how did it look?" She touched her ear without taking her eyes off Barton.

The tiny earphone hissed a little when the audio channel opened.

"Darling, if there were a vault before you, it'd have melted right now," the earpiece answered cheerfully. "Cameras in contact lenses are up and running, retina scans are as clear as a crystal."

A corner of Barton's lips itched upward.

"You read too many books of Dashiell Hammett, smartass."

Barton took a purse from the table (yesterday two men eagerly put together its contents) and handed it to Natasha. Apart from her lipstick there was a USB stick disguised as a mobile phone and an access card scanner. Those were from Hans. Barton added a few things in case plan A failed.

"Let's go."

 

* * *

 

They were appropriately ten minutes late. After queuing in the line of guests their Mercedes stopped before the gates of Martelli mansion. The game was on.

"Number one is on position," said Trent who was lying at the nearest high point with a sniper rifle.

"Numbers two and three are on position." A 'road worker' surreptitiously touched his ear. Solinski and he were putting a fence around a manhole on a road turn.

"Everyone in place. Let's roll," Hans concluded.

Barton stepped out of the car and gallantly opened the rear door for Natasha. The couple passed the guards standing at attention at the doors and blended into the black-and-white crowd. Barton greeted two men, casually and good-naturedly nodded to the third one. The knowledge of people and companies completed with confidence and a mention of several high-end events worked wonders. It was almost as good as NLP. Several people already 'remembered' him. Natasha acted as a drug: light, pleasant and besotting.

They found Martelli in about ten minutes. He had a solid handshake, a nod, a friendly smile of the finely sculpted mouth. Greetings. _Will the new line deliver such results? And they said Santos would never give up his old ways, he would hold on to it like a bulldog._ A round of applause for the winner. A sip of _Moet et Chandon_ out of a flute. There were usual conversations at an evening in honor of a new industrial mogul. A business routine, social etiquette. Several minutes later Martelli warmly wished them to have a nice evening, hoped that they would become partners and went to greet new guests. He cast a last long glance at a tall redhead with the presence of a queen.

"Another glance like this, and I'll be jealous," Clint whispered into Natasha's ear.

"Well now, wait for another shoe to drop," she smiled. "When it will you can unpack you bow. Men love to play with someone else's toys. Especially hunters like him."

When the amount of consumed alcohol had risen and the first hunger of business conversations was sated the evening gradually entered the second stage: conversations in small groups were accompanied by nice food, smooth jazz and lounge music.

Barton settled on a small group of men discussing mostly business and football. Considering the yesterday's final game football was more popular. Natasha walked among the groups and talked with different people. The hunter should have a chance to look at the prey from every angle after all. One helpless and abandoned for the sake of new business contacts.

Natasha stopped by a table twirling a flute of champagne in her hand and listening to meaningless small talk among moguls, generals and mafia bosses. There was even one president of a banana republic. Well, they changed there too often, anyway. This was a world of rich men and beautiful women. Speaking of rich men: out of the corner of an eye she saw Martelli start the second wide arc around her coming closer with each step.

"A guest of mine is abandoned and bored, isn't she? As the host I apologize," a pleasant male voice said from behind her back.

Natasha turned to face Martelli and smiled, "Sometimes it's nice not to talk business all the time."

"Is it that sad?"

"The London stock exchange is in crisis, the local gentlemen are somewhat worried," Natasha shrugged.

The host raised one eyebrow, "Does this mean that London is not your hometown?"

"I decided that it would be so seven years ago. London took that right from the Netherlands. Or the sad burden — depends on the point of view. Michael says I didn't become a real Englishwoman: I can't stand tea, I don't cheer for Manchester United, and I don't like the _Dr. Who_ series. The Tate gallery is a masterpiece, though."

Martelli laughed and took a flute of champagne from the table.

"Then I'll keep the comments about the brilliant final game of Argentine championship to myself until your husband is around. And I won't offer you yerba mate. Let's drink champagne. Cheers."

He saluted with the flute and drank without taking his eyes off Natasha.

"I'll try to improve your mood. Life is not all about the business. Will you dance with me?"

Natasha put the flute on the table and accepted the outstretched hand. Martelli held her carefully and led her confidently to the dance floor where several couples were already dancing. Natasha relaxed following the lead and the rhythm, her left hand slipped from the man's shoulder to his chest, then during a turn it went lower in a sensual gesture. A good dancer is easy to see. Improvisations, leading and following — with such a partner one didn't even have to know how to dance, only follow and enjoy. When the dance was over Natasha stilled to catch her breath and looked into her partner's eyes smiling.

"Thank you."

Martelli's hand slipped down her arm.

"Do you hear that? It's tango, the king of dance in Argentine. Now there will be a show of professional dancers. _Tango de Salon_ is elegant and sophisticated. I'm sure you'll like it."

Natasha finally looked away and allowed him to lead her toward the wall clearing the place for a couple in dancing outfits.

"The scan is complete," the earpiece transmitted.

Natasha took a flute again and waited for the entertainment to start. The access card was already in the pocket of her dress. Why do men always assume that women touch them only out of sexual impulses?

The music stopped.

"I know how to entertain you. I have a nice collection of paintings on the upper floor. Argentine _avant-garde_."

Natasha raised her eyebrow.

"Just paintings," Martelli smiled disarmingly. "It's a pleasure to meet an art lover."

Natasha nodded graciously and followed him.

On the second floor they encountered another guard. Passing by the study Natasha looked over the access control panel. It could be useful. The guard in a black uniform looked at them, then stared back at the staircase.

 

* * *

 

When they returned to the hall a simpler _tango Liso_ just started. Martelli looked expectantly at Natasha.

"Do you dance?"

"I do, but right now I'll pass. Tango is an intimate dance."

"Is your husband that jealous? What about the well-known British primness?"

"He's of Irish descend," Natasha smiled and sipped the champagne. "But you know what they say: even an unflappable English gentleman will show some emotion if you stick a fork into his eye."

As a proof of this saying Barton appeared out of nowhere and put a possessive hand around her waist.

"Sorry, I left you on your own."

"Don't worry, I had great time with our host."

"I'm afraid I'll have to steal Joanne from you." He looked at Natasha. "I promised to introduce you to Maria Chavez. She wanted to ask you about that cultural fund that you'd worked with."

"Of course."

Natasha turned to Martelli again and smiled enchantingly, "I have to leave you. Thank you for your time. And I think I'll take you at your word about that tango."

Barton stared at them 'blankly'.

"Michael, dear," Natasha looked at her husband merrily and lightly touched his elbow. "I promise: if you learn to tango, I'll dance only with you. But I can't visit Argentine and not dance at least once."

The expression on Barton's face clearly said _Women!_ Natasha nodded to Martelli apologizing for leaving him and followed Barton to the lady in a blue evening dress.

Five minutes later when Natasha already told her everything she knew about the fund and was thinking about a gracious way of ending the conversation the enthusiastic lady left. Barton exhaled without appearing to do so, looked at his watch and switched his attention to Hans.

"It's time. What's the situation on the second floor?"

"Still one guard. He's bored."

"Let's cheer him up. Jam cameras on the third floor."

In the van Hans tapped the keyboard excitedly. One of the monitors in the security cubicle showed ripples. The guard behind the console frowned and tapped it. The hacker smiled nastily and shut the monitor off completely.

"Get ready, the bird is getting out of the nest."

The guard behind the console took the walkie-talkie and called up the guard walking the second floor corridor, "Check the third floor, the camera is out."

Hans tapped the keyboard again.

"All done. Third floor camera shows second floor. Your turn."

Barton turned to the room and scanned the crowd covering most of the doorframe and a huge vase. Behind his back Natasha flew up the staircase. She peeked around the corner — everything was clear. The inner metronome started ticking as usual.

_One..._

 Come to the door.

_Two..._

Put the access card into the scanner.

_Three..._

A second of waiting. Verification. Blinking green light.

_Four..._

Breathe in, breathe out, contact lens was at the level of retina scanner.

_Pause..._

_Pause..._

_Pause..._

Natasha froze. The green light stopped blinking recognizing her.

_Five..._

She took the card out, entered the study and closed the door.

"I'm inside," Natasha said quietly looking around.

She could bet that was the chamber of horrors behind the bookcase on her right there and on her left... She looked at the furniture and decorations. It was worth it to look for the safe box on the left — behind that modern kitsch. Natasha shook her head and concentrated on the computer near the window. The USB connected in a few seconds. The blue diode on the black server blinked. The computer coughed and started receiving the data.

"It's ready, Hans."

The hacker clicked the keys quietly whistling the _Imperial march_ from _The Star Wars_. The first level of security was down in three minutes. The second one tried to resist earning a glare and more attention to itself. Hans tuned out the reality diving into the virtual world as was his habit. He almost saw as his commands turned into code and electrical impulses that traveled through miles of cables turning into virtual lock picks and false signals quietly scratching into the firewall. Nanoseconds turned into seconds and minutes.

"Come on, darling, stop bitching," Hans cooed gently. "Right, now we override this. We don't need this, do we, darling?"

When the 'darling' finally surrendered to the passionate lover the hacker crept into the catalogue.

"Right, the most important things are under another level of security. I don't even have to look for it. Otherwise I'd have spent another five minutes searching the drives. Thanks," Hans said earnestly to no one in particular and started copying: the indicator of completion crawled to the right. "Natasha, just a few more minutes, and you can leave. I think..."

"You think?" Natasha inquired suspiciously.

"Hmm... Wait a sec," Hans checked the cameras' data. "Maybe you can't. Barton, the guard is coming back. I'm turning the camera back to live feed."

He quickly reset both cameras and asked impatiently, "Well, do we send him on a march through the Alps again? Let's say, to the furthest hall of the third floor?"

"Do it."

Hans tapped a few commands.

"Dammit, it's not working again. What's up with the third one?" the guard at the console checked in again.

The guard at the study doors looked around and said into the walkie-talkie, "The main protection site is the study. There are too many intruders." It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.

Clint looked around the hall: the guests were having a good time, the guard at the door wasn't impatient or nervous, he only looked around from time to time. With such a face, though, it was really had to tell.

Clint was calm. There was no point in worrying. Plan A failed which meant that everything went as usual. It was worth worrying when plan C went out of the window, as Natasha charmingly put it. What window had to do with it, Clint didn't know, but it sounded convincing.

"Nat, is the exit going to be a problem?"

Natasha checked the alarm: several hidden motion sensors and shatterproof glass. These people had no imagination at all. If Coulson were here for a couple of days he'd have created a real obstacle course. Then again, in that case she'd have left the study in about three months. Natasha found and destroyed the first S.H.I.E.L.D. bug in her apartment only during the second week. Coulson had a light hand, he didn't scold a newly recruited headstrong agent and quietly replaced the bug. Natasha found it only a month later. In return she 'accidentally' damaged it. The next day she defiantly looked Phil in the eye. Coulson smiled at her with endless patience. Natasha didn't even try to find the next one.

"Why would there be any?"

"Right, get ready. Hans, can you create a blind spot for the cameras monitoring the north wall? For five minutes? Then call me."

"Sure. Now, children, close your eyes, stop snooping around," he said tapping into the street cameras and adjusting the turning angle.

Clint approached a table near the wall and reached for the champagne flute. A girl from catering service surreptitiously put away empty dishes and put desserts on the table. Fruit canapés, wild berries soufflé were a classic menu with a little Italian taste. Clint listened to the phone ringing, furrowed his brows and took the phone out of the tuxedo inner pocket.

"Peter? What's up? What Frenchmen? They are arriving only this Thursday! Bloody hell, have they gorged themselves on truffles and started hallucinating?"

He raised an eyebrow listening to the answer.

"Wait, I can't hear you, I'll find a quieter place."

He turned to the girl.

"Excuse me, can I go there?" He nodded at the corridor of the north wing with several guest bedrooms.

"Of course, _señor_."

Barton started talking into the phone again, "Wait, I'll get to the Internet and look at their blasted project."

He nodded thanks to the girl, entered the room with windows facing north and closed the door. There was only a huge sofa and a couple of chairs in the spacious room — minimalism at its best. A wide-branching rosewood tree in a tub and a painting with expressive oil blotches served as decorations.

As soon as he was alone, Clint put the phone away and opened the window.

"Natasha?"

"Lead the way," the earpiece transmitted.

"You have a folding mini harpoon and a cord in your eyeglass case."

Natasha rummaged in her purse. Well, a harpoon was a too big word for it. A metal head with flicking hooks was mounted onto the bed with a small handle and two identical unmarked buttons. Why does the developer need to label anything if he understands all of it? Well, as the saying goes: 'eat me' and 'drink me', don't confuse one for another, otherwise things will get complicated.

Natasha grabbed her purse, leaned out of the window and looked up. The roof was four meters up, a dark blotch over the white wall of the house. She aimed and pushed the top button. The harpoon clawed onto the beam tugging the cord up. Natasha attached a carabiner to the cord and stepped on the eaves. She carefully closed the window and slid down to Barton.

If one forgets about breaking and entering this whole thing looked like an elopement from under Daddy's watchful eye. When 'Romeo' caught her, though, he quickly pulled her inside and looked out of the window again. He pushed the second button, the hooks clicked again, the harpoon fell into Barton's palm.

Several minutes later the 'couple' was already in the hall. Barton smirked at Natasha and nodded at Martelli who was just ending a conversation with someone or other and was searching the crowds. His eyes stopped wandering when he noticed Natasha.

"I think we promised him a dance."

"We promised?" Natasha repeated smoothing her hair. "I can let you have the honor."

"No, thanks, male tango is not my forte."

"I beg to differ. Anyway, let's go, you need to arrange a visit to the plant."

Natasha handed the purse to Clint and walked toward Martelli. She had to return the access card.

 

* * *

 

To say that Hans was upset was a gross understatement. His feelings were also hurt, he felt like a man who was reading a fascinating book series, and in the middle of all the adventures found that the next book is due to be published in a couple of years.

Contacts of arms sellers, article descriptions, accounting frauds, new designs were all there. The documents on new projects were on the plant server, though. Hans' inner voice whined that it was the most important part. Hans frowned and tousled his hair.

"Then I'll have to participate in stage two with you."

Everyone gathered in the living room in Barton's and Natasha's suite. Clint draped himself over the doorframe tired of waiting for everyone to assemble and for Natasha to wash the make-up off.

Natasha entered the room, settled on the sofa and took the shoes off. They spent the whole day tailing Martelli and several of his top engineers who had the most curious education that had nothing to do with engineering.

"I don't think so," Clint crossed his arms. "I hope you'd passed the beginners' course. Otherwise Fury'd have had you cuffed inside a van before we even left the U.S. This is a complicated case, though. It could mean trouble."

"It could also mean head trauma," Anderson added. "So you're not going inside."

Hans sighed, put his hands up admitting his defeat and slouched in an arm chair.

"Well then I'll send my regards from a distance. If everything will be alright, I won't even have to."

Natasha straightened and sent him a deathly glare.

"Anderson, you're closer, smack him on the head."

"Why?" Hans wailed itching away from Anderson.

"Because of your big mouth," Natasha explained. "And for breaking the first rule: never say that everything is fine till the mission is over."

"Are you superstitious?" Hans leaned forward with fearlessness of a man with a death wish. "Black cats, good-byes on bridges?"

"I don't know about cats, but the bridge thing is true," Barton shrugged and looked at Natasha. "Do you remember Rome?"

She smirked.

"It happened in Rome, three years ago," Barton continued gravely. "We met old friends from HILIX there. We've never seen them since."

"How so?"

"We shot them all down on that bridge. I spent half of my arrows and two magazines. There is no news of them after that. The superstition worked," he shrugged. His expression was serious, but his eyes were laughing.

Hans finally understood the joke, laughed and relaxed.

"Lead on, boss."

Barton peeled himself off the doorframe, sat at Natasha's side and turned on the portable projector on. A 3D image of the plant appeared over the table.

"So." Barton pointed to the eastern side of the perimeter placing a red dot there. "This is the entry point. Anderson and I are going in undercover and neutralize the guards inside if necessary. You take care of the gate house and the outer perimeter. We reunite if necessary. Nat, this will be your moment of glory, but be careful. The tactic is standard, the target is on the lower level. According to the information we have there are ten guards on the inner perimeter and five more in the gate house and outer perimeter."

"It seems to be a little too much for an ordinary plant," Anderson noted. "What are the possible actions?"

"Judging by the archive Hans downloaded these people are up to no good, no one's going to cry over their fate. The quieter we go the better, though."

Clint marked the main points of the estimated route. Then he turned to the 3D printer for latex masks that was printing a face of a brunette.

"Nat, you'll visit the plant as Maria Gonzalez." He nodded at driver license and access card. "Cute engineer Maria Gonzalez has access to all levels of the plant, except one. She also loves to spend her evenings at milongas and get acquainted with lonely Europeans." He modestly looked down. "She also loves to end pleasant evenings in bed."

Clint smirked at Natasha's questioning gaze.

"Tomorrow, though, she'll have to skip work because of a hangover. Too many cocktails with tranquilizers. So I'll have to take her home and tuck into the bed. The tango was awesome, though."

Natasha and Anderson exchanged glances.

"Hans," he continued, "you'll correct our movements according to guards' routes and cameras. Anderson, your guys cover us and organize a withdrawal."

He glanced around the room.

"Our target is to get the whole archive. It will be even better if we get some samples. We'll retreat quickly. The start is tomorrow morning. Now everyone should rest."

Natasha picked her shoes off the floor and went to the bedroom. She had another problem to deal with before the morning operation. She had to evade Barton while leaving. He didn't ask uncomfortable questions, but he'll start doing so soon. Natasha didn't want to lie to him. But she didn't want to lose Gruenner too.


	4. Chapter 4

_You can compose a tango melody with one finger, but put your soul into it._

_Enrique Santos Discepolo_

 

It was nine o'clock. Natasha checked her watch and looked at Gruenner again. He was devouring _asado_ at a table near a window. Natasha wished she had a portable bomb or a sniper rifle on that roof — almost like during the last time, in the ventilation shaft. She had to find his new lab. And it'd better not be under the government's protection. She didn't want a conflict, and Fury would disapprove.

Gruenner didn't know about her black thoughts or a small bomb that he could be presented with. He was enjoying his meal and drinking red wine.

"Excuse me," he called out for a waiter passing by. "Please, bring me another glass of _Pura Sangre_."

 _You'll have your 'pure blood'_. Natasha stood up and leisurely gathered her things. Any man knows that a woman can do it for the longest of time. It's also a well known fact that a woman can turn in any direction. The waiter jerked from the impact. The tray with the glass tilted dangerously, the ruby wine almost spilled over.

"I'm sorry!" Natasha caught the tray and rightened the glass. She smiled at the waiter ruefully, stepped around a clothes' rack and walked out of the heavy doors into humid Argentine twilight.

She paused on the other side of the street watching the fat man in a suit savour every drop. Natasha fished a monitoring device out of a pocket and switched it on. A red dot moved in sync with Gruenner and floated in the general direction of the bathroom. The probe gave her forty eight hours of surveillance before it dissolved.

Natasha checked her make-up in a mirror and hailed a taxi.

 

* * *

 

She returned to the hotel with a bottle of mineral water from a small supermarket around the corner. It wasn't worth the effort to hide, climb up the walls or pretend to be a spy when you could simply walk into your room.

"Can't sleep?" she heard Clint ask while unlocking her own door.

Natasha looked at him, then shrugged opening the door.

"It's too hot. I've forgotten how awful southern cities without beaches were."

Clint smirked. Natasha went in first and took her shoes off.

"Nat, what's going on? You're off your beat since this operation started."

Clint's calm voice left her no illusions. Peter Parker's 'spider sense' manifested itself once in a while, but Barton had an uncanny sense for things going sideways. He didn't try to scare or intimidate her with Fury's patented stare. Natasha sometimes wished he did. She winced internally. _Sorry, I have to kill this asshole before S.H.I.E.L.D. finds him. It's just a little project on the side._ It wasn't a very convincing explanation. She kissed him lightly, stepped back, looked at him and smiled.

"It's just that something seems to be off about this mission."

Clint raised an eyebrow refusing to be sidetracked.

"Come on, it's fine, it's just stress. You can help me deal with it."

Natasha decided to forget all her troubles and think about it later. She even repented and promised silently to Fury, No more projects on the side. She'll start a new life on Monday, she'll obey all the boss's rules. _If this op will turn into trouble... If..._ _Stop it._ Natasha cheered up and smiled wider.

"What are you doing, Nat? We have things to do tomorrow." Clint stepped away from her in surprise when she pulled up his t-shirt.

"I'm not saying anything about a marathon," Natasha threw away the t-shirt and started unbuckling his belt.

"Coulson will pluck all my feathers out for violating the protocol," he said sadly. The degree of sadness was unforgivably low.

Natasha smiled tempting him.

"Don't include your sexual fantasies in reports."

"Ten minutes, we have to get up early tomorrow," Clint said firmly, took the lead and dropped Natasha onto the bed. "Ok, twenty," he groaned when her hand crept over his abdomen and lower.

 

* * *

 

"Now look at this design." A man sitting at a conference table clicked a button, a new slide appeared.

Anderson patiently looked at the third design. In his opinion it wasn't much different from the first and second one. He looked at his watch, then at Clint. Barton was dressed in a suit, sat under the air conditioner and leisurely inspected the surroundings.

"The second one suits our purpose better. Send me the specs, we'll decide after that." He typed something on the tablet. "And add these changes."

The presentation started thirty minutes ago. The plant left a good impression: these people were like Germans, there were more lazybones, though, and life was possible only with air conditioning. Clint loosened his tie surreptitiously. _How does Coulson wear this kind of clothes in any weather?_ He looked at his watch — Natasha should be in the vault.

He really didn't like Martelli's security. Inconspicuous tall men in standard black camouflage and army boots walked the perimeter. They didn't look at visitors with suspicion and didn't even talk into walkie-talkies much. Clint heard footsteps and looked over his shoulder: a guard with a heavy-set jaw walked past the conference room doors. He stopped, tilted his head as if listening to something, then turned around and walked back.

That plant's security system was advanced, but fairly standard (Hans was breaking in right now). The guards, though... Clint stared curious at the guard's retreating back through the glass door. His movements were too measured, his face was too vacant. Barton wondered where the man served before he joined Martelli.

"When can I meet Señor Martelli?" Clint asked.

His representatives smiled politely.

"Señor Martelli apologizes, but he's delayed at a previous meeting," answered the taller one.

Clint nodded and waited.

 

* * *

 

Natasha looked straight ahead and walked on confidently. The corridor split into two five meters ahead. Another guard stood at the corner. He had a broken nose, otherwise he could be considered a twin to the previous one. The mask was uncomfortable, a wig and glasses didn't make things better too. As always.

Ten minutes past since she entered the building, but it was alright. The scanners let her through with Maria's access card without a hitch. Today 'Maria' walked her usual route: third turn on the right, a door, another corridor and another door. Then 'dear engineer' didn't to go her workplace, but walked on.

"Stop," a voice said. "There is a guard around the corner, wait ten seconds. Five. Go."

Natasha walked on.

"I'll block terminals' logs." Hans typed in several commands. "But you're going in solo."

As always. Natasha took a copy of Martelli's access card. Heavy vault door clicked closed behind her back, lights grew brighter and reached normal intensity. The walls of the square room were covered in numbered metal deposit boxes. Natasha turned on a computer in the center of the room and plugged in the USB with a remote access.

"Wait," Hans said in a neutral voice.

As if she had a choice. Natasha checked the list of deposit boxes and concentrated on those numbered from one to twenty.

 

* * *

 

For a chatterbox like Hans the message was very short: _Everything is downloaded_. Clint who was sitting in a conference room two floors above the vault exhaled. He liked the easy way out much better. He looked at Anderson and put his smartphone into a pocket.

"I'm sorry, I think my meetings are overlapping too. I have the initial budget proposal. Send me the specs, we'll study them later."

Clint shook hands with all the representatives.

"Señor Martelli is very sorry too, he had to deal with an urgent supply issue. We'll show you the way out."

Outside the conference hall two guards in black uniforms formed an escort walking several meters behind the guests.

 

* * *

 

The elevator grumbled to a stop  on the upper floor. Natasha stepped in and took an access card and a thin monitoring device showing a red dot out of the bag. Bloody Gruenner. She had to finish her project on the side before she left the country. It was becoming more and more difficult. The fat man was careful and behaved like a good school kid: he didn't meet anyone and stayed under the radar.

Natasha absentmindedly looked at the monitoring device and frowned seeing the coordinates of the dot. She magnified the quadrant. The territory of the plant grew larger and more detailed.

Natasha magnified the picture again and switched to 3D view. 'Gruenner' was unassumingly hovering below the lowest level of the building. Natasha stared at the dot.

She reached for the earpiece nervously, but stopped. Then she sighed and opened the channel.

"Hans, tell Clint he can scream at me later. It looks like there is another level here. It's not in the plan of the building. Do you remember Matthews from Fury's briefing materials? The fat scientist specializing in genetic engineering? His real last name is Gruenner. He used to work for the KGB, conducted experiments on people, tried to create supersoldiers. Well, that man now works for Martelli. And he's here, on the level that doesn't exist."

Hans tousled his hair, sighed and typed a message for Barton.

"You are something," he said into a microphone.

 

* * *

 

Clint took the smartphone out of the pocket and read the message.

 _ABORT. NOW._ he sent back and looked at Anderson.

His feeling of unease turned into certainty. This was a _matryoshka_ , a nesting doll. Everyone had a hidden agenda. This plant was a cover for illegal activities that hid activities even more illegal. If this plant were closed down and pulled apart everything that was not on the building plans would just disappear into the thin air. That's what the guards were here for. Clint remembered the man in a uniform who walked behind the conference room doors. His head was bowed as if he was listening or something.

Now it was becoming clear why Ramiro failed.

 

* * *

 

The elevator doors opened, and Natasha found herself looking into the business end of a gun. There were two silent black figures behind Martelli's back. The guards twisted her hands and held her tight. Martelli ripped her mask off.

"Ah, 'Joanne'. The boys told me they sensed a very curious smell. That was also present in my house and in my study too which was most unusual."

He nodded to the guards. They stepped back into the elevator dragging Natasha with them. Martelli went in last without lowering the gun.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" he asked almost amiably.

Natasha kicked him hard knocking the gun out of his hand. The routine worked up to the moment when the guards' hands should have unclenched letting her go. The guards stood still. Natasha hissed from the pain in her hands. Martelli laughed, licked his bloodied lip and spoke into the wristwatch, "Detain our guests".

He picked the gun off the floor, pressed three buttons plus emergency button. The elevator went down, reached the lowest level and kept going.

"Well, we didn't get to have our date, but let me show you another side of Argentine, dear. The one most common during the Dirty War."

 

* * *

 

When the guards behind them looked at each other the original plan was officially busted. It would take them several minutes to get out, that wasn't a problem. The problem was it took a lot more time to get out of the lower floor of the building.

 _We'll have to keep them busy,_ Clint thought.

When the party reached the stairs he pushed a button on his briefcase and threw it back into the guards. Metal detector can find weapons hidden inside. Not so for this briefcase, it was a weapon in and of itself.

After the blast Clint and Anderson ran after the plant representatives.

The first one went down after one blow. The second one was cleverer: he turned around, punched Barton and reached for his gun. Clint grabbed his hand, kicked him into the chest and hit him on the head for a good measure. The man blacked out.

Clint turned to Anderson. There were shadows dancing through the smoke beating each other. Clint quickly searched pockets of the fake plant representative and found a gun. It was unlikely that Anderson was so good that he could hold a 150-kg man by the neck and bang his head on the nearest wall. The guard kept shaking his head trying to clear it, but wasn't even wavering. So much for twenty-seconds flash blindness, hearing loss up to four hours plus a delightful effect of an explosion inside a building. Anderson broke free and managed to block the next punch.

"Get down!" Clint shot several times over the crouching partner.

The other silhouette jerked and toppled sideways.

"What the hell?" Anderson cursed rubbing his side. "What is he feeding them? Only pure steroids?"

"That's quite possible," Clint answered darkly staring into smoke-filled corridor.

Anderson expertly patted down the dead guard and pocketed his gun and extra magazines.

"The second one is out cold thanks to the explosion," he added feeling the other guard's pulse.

Anderson shrugged and hit him on the head with the gun handle for a good measure. The alarm started wailing overhead. Clint nodded at the corridor before them.

"They'll be waiting for us at the gate house."

"I'm more worried about these men in black." He took the walkie-talkie out and put the earpiece into place. "Trent, do you read? Report the situation. Over."

"We're at the entrance. The gate house is neutralized. It's crowded here, though, because of the evacuation. Over."

Clint stared into the smoke and put his earpiece into the ear. The smoke started to dissolve, vague shadow became visible on the far end of the corridor.

"Hans, how's Natasha?"

"I have nothing. No signal."

Clint nodded to Anderson and headed toward elevators.

 

* * *

 

Natasha leaned back in an examination chair and looked around. Her hands were bound. That was nothing to worry about, there's always a way out. She turned her head — two guards froze just in front of Martelli. The third one stood by the door. The lab was almost bare: several metal tables, computers, isolation wards with round windows. There was a huge examination couch behind a thick glass wall. Natasha cringed: such surroundings meant minimum of comfort, maximum of efficiency and a restrained patient. There was a console close to the bed, a helmet with wires attached to it and to the console. Natasha didn't want to dwell on who sat behind the far door. She noticed half empty shelves and papers on the floor.

Gruenner-Matthews was nervously shifting from one foot to another.

"Martelli, why the hell did you bring outsiders here? I stayed away from the lab for the whole week because of some stupid intelligence agents, and all was for naught?"

Martelli stopped examining Natasha, smiled like a Hollywood star and said, "Don't fret, Doctor, this 'mouse' isn't going anywhere and isn't telling anything to anyone. Get your things."

Gruenner huffed indignantly, but didn't say a word and disappeared behind the door. Martelli approached Natasha and held her chin.

"Who sent you?"

Natasha swallowed and rasped, "Pasco, he wants to tap into drug supply chain."

"He doesn't have teeth for that. No, someone more serious hired you and your dear husband."

Martelli leaned in, curled a strand of her hair around his finger and pulled.

"I'm asking you one last time. Who are you working for?"

"Are you going put me on a ship and wave me good-bye if I answer that?" Her voice was seething with skepticism.

Martelli slapped her. Natasha hit her head on the chair and stared at Martelli. He went to the table and sorted through things found on her during a search. He chuckled, broke the access card in two and threw into trash bin.

"I was thinking about keeping you alive. Maybe."

Martelli caught Natasha looking at the guards behind him. They were completely still.

"Do you like my boys? Do you know what I learned from the latest crisis? Contacts, contracts, friendship — it all works when you're on top of the world. As soon as you waver you business partner will leave, you woman will abandon you, you'll turn into a milking cow for your government. That was a lesson my father learned. No, the most important thing is loyalty."

He patted guard's cheek.

"I mean absolute loyalty. Like one of a dog. If I command they'll step into fire, jump off a bridge or pursue the prey for days on end. They are tireless and invincible. Beautiful hounds. They have enhanced sense of smell, stamina and implanted pseudo-armour."

The guard with a square jaw stared at Natasha barely blinking and catching her every move.

"Let me guess," she made a face, "you politely asked them to be your Guinea pigs."

"Nothing comes that easily. You should hear our good Doctor speak on the topic, he can explain everything about ends and means. In a sense they a happy now, though, they know what they live for. They live for me."

The alarm wailed in the distance. Natasha looked at Martelli and smiled widely.

"Right, they live and die for you. More like with you. SWAT team will tear this place apart in ten minutes."

Martelli held out a hand, the second guard gave him a walkie-talkie.

"What's going on up there?"

"There are intruders on the upper levels," came a reply. "They're armed, exact number is unknown."

Martelli sighed annoyed and spoke again.

"Leave, I'm initiating the Exodus plan. You have two minutes."

He looked at Natasha with appreciation.

"You know, I haven't tried this procedure on women, it would have been curious. Anyway, on to the next stage. Doc, do you have your precious samples?" Martelli shouted into the open door of the lab. "We got to go."

Gruenner emerged with a bulky attaché case. He was breathing hard and mopping his brow with a crumbled handkerchief.

"You and your love for drama! Why couldn't you warn me earlier?" the fat man seethed.

"Calm down, Doc," Martelli said evenly. "We've already talked this through, and almost everything is evacuated. You'll have a new lab, but now hurry."

He threw walkie-talkie back to the Hound and sat down at a table with a computer. In a distance doors rattled closed. The plant's alarm became even more vague.

"That's it, everything is evacuated, the building is sealed." Matrelli stood up and turned to Natasha.

"Danger. Emergency. Four minutes... till explosion," a computer voice said.

Natasha flinched. Martelli looked at her with interest like a cat watching a mouse caught in a trap.

"Don't  worry. Shellproof walls were made expressedly for that purpose, no one will get hurt. Well, almost no one. It will be just an explosion in a research lab."

Martelli went to the emergency exit and punched in a code. Natasha looked at him. His wide back obstructed the view leaving only a part of the panel visible. Three-peep-six-peep-peep. He scanned the retina, the door slid aside revealing a tunnel. One of the Hounds went in first.

"Good-bye," Martelli said good-naturedly and left.

Gruenner followed him nervously pressing the attaché case to his belly. The rest of the Hound turned around and silently followed their master. The door clicked closed.

Natasha exhaled and ordered herself to calm down. Four minutes is a lot of time. It's enough to kill several people, hijack a car, have an orgasm and disarm a bomb. She just had to work on a bomb.

 

* * *

 

Barton looked around the corner and quickly ducked back. A bullet hissed where his head was a second ago. This was a good position — unfortunately, it was good for their opponents. They got hold of the elevator hall. Two guards died at the beginning, Anderson and agent Trent killed two more when they decided to impersonate Terminator and entered the corridor. That left about eight security men and two Martelli's thugs. Clint tried not to think about the lower levels. She'll deal with it, she always has, and we'll help. We'll just have to neutralize the rest of the guards.

Two on the left are mine, the rest are yours, Clint indicated to Anderson who was crouching with Trent near the other wall.

Both nodded and got ready. Barton pushed a button on the quiver. The rotation stopped on the second cell. Great! Let's see how you like explosive arrows. He drew the bow, counted to three and leaned around the corner. The sound of the released spring blended with the explosion.

Clint put the bow over his shoulder, took a gun out of the holster and shot the guard who was trying to get up. Anderson and Trent were running forward somewhere on the right, Solinski was covering the maneuver. Four guards went down, the rest descended the stairs.

Now they needed to get to the lower level. It was impossible to activate the elevator without an access card and a retina scan. Clint grinned. Explosives open any door.

"I hoped to send the report and eat _asado_ at Puerto-Madero," Anderson sighed and changed the magazine.

Clint snorted and chose another arrow.

"I can't promise you _asado_ , but if we don't get out of here we'll turn into a very nice kebab. Martelli will personally turn the skewer over the fire."

A door rattled closed at the end of the corridor.

"What the hell?" Barton didn't finish the sentence.

_Danger. Emergency. Four minutes... till explosion._

Neutral computer voice repeated the message three times and started countdown. The agents looked at each other. Barton went to the door not even trying to hide.

"Hans, can you turn it off? Hans?"

"I'm trying," he replied.

Hans typed furiously trying to access the subsystem. Some fool once said that there was no harm in trying, the rest of the world repeated this bullshit. His third attempt failed. Hans scratched his head and tried another way. What if... No such luck.

_Danger. Emergency. Two minutes... till explosion._

"This process is not part of the main security system. It can't be stopped. Like, it's a gas leak, get out."

"What are you talking about?" Barton snapped.

"That's just an example," Hans explained. "The thing is, it's written over the main process."

Clint closed his eyes for a second and clenched his fists trying to calm down. It became clear why the remaining guards left so quickly.

"What about these doors?"

"I'm telling you, I can't do anything!" Hans tousled his hair again and stared at the monitor that showed the plant's security interface.

"Anderson, how much explosives do we have if we put everything together?"

"Barton, these walls were designed to withstand an explosion," Anderson replied carefully.

"Hans, are there other ways down?"

"I don't see any."

_Danger. Emergency. One minute... till explosion._

Anderson waved other agents away and put a hand on Clint's shoulder who as staring bleakly at the door.

"We have to go. You can't help her right now. The walls might collapse if the explosion is huge enough."

Clint hit the wall and turned around.

"We're leaving," he said grimly.

When they were ten meters away from the main gates they head a dull rumble. Down below something grumbled, shook and rolled. The left side of the main building caved in crushing the building like a tin can while the right side was unchanged.

Clint watched the smoke rise over the roof. Fragmented thoughts whirled in his head, but he chased them away. It wasn't the time. Fire brigade sirens were becoming louder. Emergency vehicles were also close by, their sirens drumming into Barton's head.

 

* * *

 

_Four minutes... till explosion._

There was no time to lose.

Natasha jerked her hands checking the gap between her skin and the cuffs. The cuffs were designed for men, Natasha with her delicate wrists had minimum of freedom. She smirked. That was nothing new. She pulled her hand away from the chair, turned it sideways, breathed in and dislocated her thumb with a sharp jab of the knee. The resulting pain blinded her for a couple of seconds. Natasha bit her lip and carefully pulled her hand out of the cuff. The second one opened easily. Natasha pulled the dislocated finger — the joint clicked into place.

Natasha stood up rubbing the wrists and stared at the emergency exit. Three-peep-six-peep-peep. Three numbers equaled thousands of combinations. Great. So much for trusting her lucky star.

 _Two minutes... till explosion_ , the lucky star announced its presence and demurely fell silent.

Natasha's bag was on the table along with the dark wig and the remains of the latex mask. She tried to remember the contents of her bag: the monitor showing Gruenner's red dot _(I'll get you, bastard!),_ a hand mirror, a lipstick with explosives (Coulson was a fan of old spy gadgets and simple solutions), compact powder... Natasha called herself a fool, took the powder and ran to the panel near the door.

Fine powder nicely covered the shiny surface making the fingerprints visible. One, four, seven. The third combination opened the lock. Bingo! Natasha stared into the retina scanner. A concrete dimly-lit tunnel was the most beautiful sight she saw today.

 

* * *

 

The sirens were approaching the plant. Clint absentmindedly righted his shirt and nodded to the rest of the team, "Reteat to the assembly point and wait ten minutes."

Anderson shook his head hopelessly, but agreed, "Of course."

The atmosphere in the van was gloomy. Crestfallen Hans sat at his usual place, but turned away from his monitors. Trent and Solinski perched on the bench running along the wall and tried to fade into background. Anderson climbed into the driver's seat, and now he was absentmindedly drumming on the stirring wheel. They had to leave before cops joined the fire brigade and the doctors. They had to contact Coulson. They had to... Clint stood at the open doors of the van and waited. There were another five minutes. All the things they had to do could wait five minutes. Somehow this countdown was even worse than the one before the explosion.

The countdown reached zero, Clint turned around trying not to look at the plant and grabbed the handle.

"Hey, handsome, can you give a girl a ride home?"

Clint froze and smiled still holding on to the handle. He turned around and looked at Natasha noticing crumbled white shirt, bloodied lip and a bruise forming on her cheekbone.

"Can't say no to such a girl."

He let her in first, then stepped inside and closed the door.


	5. Chapter 5

_Let's dance one last time and part ways on good terms._

_Unknown tango teacher_

"He's planning to ride off into the sunset," Hans had already calmed down, his sense of humour returned. "Most literally."

He showed the team the plan of the port.

"Romanoff, you curious dot is hovering at a dock. I've digged something up: there is an unassuming company working in cargo transportation. It's owned by an unassuming corporation that belongs to..." The hacker turned to Barton with a flourish.

"To Martelli."

"Correct. Today their ship _Tridente_ leaves the port. I'm willing to bet anything that they'll load their stuff onto a cargo container ship."

Barton stood with his hands crossed, the rest were sitting close by.

"I see. Nat, it's your turn. I want to hear your story," he said with meaning.

 

* * *

 

Natasha looked into the mirror and carefully dubbed the split lip. She winced and reached for the compact powder, she really didn't want the bruise to be visible.

"Now I want to hear the part of the story that you censored," said a voice from behind her back.

Natasha sighed and turned to Clint. She expected this conversation. Hell, she even expected this reproach in his eyes and carefully-controlled voice. There was no distrust in his eyes, though, and Natasha sighed with relief. The rest could be salvaged.

The story was somehow short. In her head it grew, dragged out the shreds of emotions she felt during the training, the rage and the regret. In reality the whole thing took about two minutes.

"Why didn't you tell me about it? Or Coulson?"

Natasha looked up.

"I've killed dozens of people before I joined the S.H.I.E.L.D. Hans was dragged into it after he hacked into a government server. How much information did he leak? Do you remember the rescue mission to Warsaw? Weiner is now our arms expert. How many bombs did he make for terrorists before he was dragged to our lovely office with a sack on his head?"

"What are you getting at? Weiner is..."

"...a good guy dedicated to his job. I know. Bla-bla-bla. You know, we have knowledge and experience that the S.H.I.E.L.D. needs, and the S.H.I.E.L.D. accomodates us. How many unique specialists were hired after the fall of the HYDRA?"

"The S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't hire everyone," Clint objected. "It's not purely the question of profits and value."

"It depends. Can you guarantee that the wish to know something new won't win over? Gruenner has a ready-to-use technology. It needs to be reworked, and _voila_ , we're ready to bring peace and prosperity. For the greater good."

Clint stared at Natasha and said in a measured tone, "Gruenner won't work for the S.H.I.E.L.D. We'll suck his brains dry, though."

Natasha smiled crookedly.

"Alright, time is running out, let's go. Are you ready?"

"I always am." Natasha saluted him mockingly.

 

* * *

 

The South side of the La Plata is the port kingdom of Buenos Aires. It contains thirty five square kilometers of docks, wharves, warehouses and elevating equipment. Floating and port cargo cranes are huge, ship repair yards can house anything up to an army cruiser. In other words, it was a stack of hay they could search for weeks. If they didn't know where the needle was, that is.

Clint looked at his team sitting in the van.

"Is everything clear? Anderson?"

"We're ready. Take these, you might need them." He threw breathing masks to Clint and Natasha.

"Hans, you're..."

"...sitting in the van and coordinating your movements," he finished obediently.

"Our goal is to neutralize the guards and apprehend Martelli and Gruenner. They're on the Tridente, that's the fartherest dock from here. The 'Doberman Pinschers' must be close by."

The van was situated near the entrance to the warehouse territory on a high ground. The team split up: Clint and Anderson took the right sector, Trent and Solinski took the left one. A stone at a crossroads from Russians fairy tales came to Natasha's mind. What did it promise to those who chose to go straight ahead? _Who said that we're going to choose the road, though?_

_If you're dealing with guard dogs you can separate your group, then gather everyone in the place you need. It will reduce the smell intensity._

The patrolling Hound stopped: there was a new dangerous smell with a hint of army metall. He walked around a container treading carefully. The newcomer was cautious, oh so cautious. A jumpsuit, a mask, gloves and high boots only reduced the smell not eliminating it completely.

The Hound followed the trail holding a _Beretta_ at ready. He found the newcomer in the next lane, his shadow was visible on the dry asphalt. The Hound managed to turn around when he heard a faint sound from behind, but had no time to shoot. The needle of a stun gun bit into his neck bringing waves of pain and darkness.

Anderson stepped from behind a container and gave Trent thumbs up.

_Try to take the higher ground, the wind will blow away your smell._

The top of a container had a wonderful view over the loading area and the top of the guard's head. Natasha waited patiently until he finished his round and stepped into the lane. The guard smelt something in the place where the Black Widow climbed up as befitted any normal spider and looked around. Natasha jumped on top of him. Tranquillizers are wonderful inventions of the human kind, they can put down an elephant.

_Double back, turn, it will confuse the dogs._

The smell devided into two: one trail turned around the corner and headed for the ships, the other went straight as if mocking the Hound and stopped abruptly as if the owner suddenly grew wings and flew away. Or he headed back. The Hound frowned. The smell was familiar from the plant and reminded him of gunshots and the fury of an explosion in a narrow corridor.

_Take with you a jar of ground pepper to spill over your footprints, the dog's sense of smell is very acute._

("The French Resistance fighters had cocaine in their pockets for preccisely that purpose," Clint mused.

Natasha imagined that picture and said, "I want to see Fury's face when he'll get that bill."

"I have another option.")

An arrow bit into a container wall with a metal clink. The Hounds spread guns at ready. Their opponent preferred to take cover again. Well, he couldn't be far. The first Hound raised his hand to his face: his eyes and throat were burning. The rest of the gas hissed out of the tip of the arrow. The Hound cringed from the sickening wave that spread around him. It crawled inside him robbing him of ability to feel, breathe and think. The Hound held his breath and shook his head trying to chase away the sticky fog and regroup. The needle landed exactly under the lower end of the implanted armour. Falling into unconsciousness the Hound saw a figure in a jumpsuit and a mask that stepped around the corner. The figure came closer, kicked away a _Beretta_ and mockingly waved him good-bye.

 

* * *

 

Clint approached the _Tridente_ from the aft end covered from the guards by angular equipment of the terminal. He aimed and shot. The harpoon with a thin line bit into the top of the broadside.

"Have fun here, we've going up," he said into the walkie-talkie and nodded to Romanoff.

"Good luck, Legolas. Your Gruenner is sitting in the living quarters at the head of the ship. The tower is there too," Hans replied from the van leafing through ship's specs on the monitor. " _There are twelve single cabins, a lounge, a sauna and a gym on board for the crew_. How wonderful. Barton, how come we don't have a sauna and a lounge?"

"You're on air," Clint replied reproachfully.

"Maybe others want a sauna too, but are afraid to ask," he weaseled out, but wisely shut up.

The only deck of the dry-cargo freighter was filled with rows of standard twenty-feet high containers. They made up hundred and fifty meters long streets lined with skyscapers. Linear structure, one direction, zero hiding places - welcome on board. Natasha looked at metall walls, then at Barton.

_Let's roll._ The inner metronome started ticking again.

Three steps. The first opponent stepped and the corner and reached for the gun. Natasha shot and dodged, the second Hound appeared several seconds later. Natasha dived under his hand wihout stopping, let Barton deal with him and concentrated on the third one.

They approached the tower three minutes and seven guards later. There were two ways to reach the top: throug the central staircase and a door or through the side staircases running right to the top. Natasha showed a fist to Barton. He rolled his eyes. _Alright, rock-paper-scissors. Dammit!_ Natasha smirked and went in first.

They heard single shot from the warehouses area that turned into a shootout.

 

* * *

 

Martelli fired when the door to the tower opened. The shots were heard even here, everyone knew about the attack. After three shots he stopped and carefully approached the door. No one entered. The window behind him smashed, and a figure jumped in.

Martelli turned and shot again. He missed, but suddenly his wrist was in pain. He stared dumbfounded at an arrow pinning his hand to a wall.

"It's us again." Barton smiled widely and knocked the art lover unconscious.

After making sure Martelli was no thread he left the room. It seemed that the ship's captain was scared half to death and seriously considered other career options. Barton caught a glimpse of Natasha in the porthole. He stopped at the end of living quarters and took a moment to enjoy the view. There were three things he could look at indefinitely: a burning fire, Coulson tending to his vintage Corvette and Natasha Romanoff fighting. Did her jujitsu resemble ballet or the other way around?

Natasha kicked the guard and rendered him unconscious with a power glove. Three thousand volts is your bonus, don't miss it!

"Shall we proceed to the final stage?" Clint asked coming closer.

 

* * *

 

Hans was sitting in the van and was so stressed out that he was almost biting his nails. The shootout continued, the agents took cover in loading equipment, the Hound were shooting from the opposite side of the dock. Hans wanted to push the save button just in case.

Another car swished by the van. Hans froze and carefully turned on the external camera. A Range Rover screeched to a stop in front the van, two men in black uniforms jumped out of it. The last one took something big and long out of the car. Hans adjusted brightness and magnified the picture trying to understand what it was. The men outside talked into a radio and started settling in.

"What?" Hans finally identified the thing they were carrying. "Fuck!" He contacted Anderson. "New guests arrived. They have a rocket launcher! Leave, now!"

"Stop babbling, where are they?"

"There is no time... but I'll try." He teared the earpiece out and rummaged under the seat for a gun.

"Hans! Hans, stop whatever you're doing..." Anderson nodded to Trent and Solinski, "Cover me."

Hans jumped out of the van. One of the Hounds stood on one knee and was aiming for the dock. Hans froze. This was so much like _The Call of Duty_. You concentrate, aim, pull the trigger and see a bunch of colored pixels explode in front of you. The rocket launcher fell down, Hound toppled sideways.

"Oh, I hit him!" Hans mumbled to himself.

The second Hound rolled away and turned in the direction of the shot. _One man, armed._ He noted the way the shooter was dressed and held the gun. _Danger level is low_.

Hans aimed at the second Hound, gripped the gun and accidentally released the magazine. It clicked on the asphalt.

"Oops, good thing nobody saw this. Well, apart from you," he added sourly watching the Hound rise to his feet.

Hans grabbed the magazine and ran toward the van trying to put the magazine back. He felt like a pimple on a forehead on this open ground.

Hans ducked to the right at the last moment, the bullet whizzed past. He crouched behind the car and leaned out carefully: the Hound was closer than he liked. Hans shot two times and hid behind the van again. When he looked out again, the ground was empty.

"What the..."

A metal clink made him look up. The Hound jumped up on the van's roof in one smooth movement. Hans jerked and shot three more bullets. All of them missed the target. It occurred to him that the muzzle of a gun seemed to be bigger if he looked into it. Another shot rang out. The Hound fell to the ground and stayed there.

"Are you alright?" Anderson asked stepping around the van and putting his gun away.

 

* * *

 

"Martelli, when are we leaving? What's going on? You promised..."

Gruenner turned to face the door and fell silent blinking helplessly. A red-headed woman from the plant walked into the room instead of a dark-haired man. The one that was blown apart. _Or so I thought,_ he noted sadly noticing a gun holster on her hip.

"We can strike a deal." He licked his lips. "I'm a valuable asset, you government will be glad..."

"It won't," Natasha cut him short stepping closer.

Gruenner backed into a table and tried to open the top drawer. Natasha pushed him to the wall.

"What do we have here? A resume?" She took a _Glock_ out of the drawer, tut-tutted and put it back.

"Who the hell are you?" Gruenner wheezed.

"No one, absolutely no one, just a little mouse," Natasha smiled charmingly and took cuffs out of a pocket.

She wanted to add something else, but decided that it wasn't worth it.

 

* * *

 

Barton hit Hans in the stomach. When he doubled over, Barton punched him in the face.

"Rule number one: orders must be obeyed. If I say _sit in the van_ , it means _sit in the van._ It does not mean _attack with only one gun_ when you don't even remember how to use it."

"Well, they'd have covered the whole dock with your insides! But now we managed..."

Barton cut him off.

"We got very lucky. You got very lucky. If Anderson was five seconds late, you wouldn't be standing here." Barton looked at him and added, "Or lying. You'd have been in pieces. But otherwise, well done."

Clint offered him a hand and helped him up. Hans measured him with a gloomy stare and rubbed his jaw.

"We'll make a good team," Clint smirked. "But after the next Legolas or Cupid joke you'll go to places that even Frodo didn't visit."

Hans smirked.

 

* * *

 

'A gas explosion' and 'maneuvers'. It was a pity that everything couldn't be filed away as 'a gas explosion' and 'maneuvers'.

Coulson sighed and returned to Barton's report. Now the hysterics of the department head were understandable. He'll get over it. They could use another classic scenario, 'turf wars'. It consists of a little bit of truth, some misleading, a little bit of rumours - shaken, not stirred. Use daily with morning and evening news.

_We managed to apprehend some of the Martelli's Hounds. They are housed with our local colleagues. Said colleagues tearfully beg us to take them away._

Coulson turned on the recording from the solitary cell. A tall Latin-American man with a heavy square jaw was sitting on a narrow bed and was staring straight ahead. He didn't move or react to the pain in the patched up shoulder. He was waiting for the master to return.

What was Coulson supposed to do with such a Hatiko?

He sighed and opened a database. This Hound used to be Miguel Alvares, a part of a special force unit with a decent resume. After resigning he worked as Martelli's guard. These two used to be Soto's men, acquired by Martelli during wars with business rivals. Only eight men were identified out of the whole pack.

 

* * *

 

Hans circled around the airplane like a thoughtful bumblebee: he stood by the arms compartment, visited the pilot (and almost got hit on the head for a lame joke), ate a dozen of gummy bears from the food cupboard, grabbed a coke from the refrigerator, then returned to the cabin and flopped into an arm chair. He opened the laptop and tried working on a new code, but quickly lost his patience. He sighed, turned the laptop off and put it away. Anderson who was sitting across from him closed the book and raised an eyebrow.

"What, is the adrenaline rush fading? And how was your first combat experience?"

"You can also ask how the first night went and whether it hurt," Hans smirked.

"Do you want to get a shiner?" Anderson asked calmly.

Hans raised his hands.

"Stop overreacting, the first time is hard on everyone. I was shaking twenty four hours after my first real mission. It will pass soon."

They fell silent.

"You'll go through a course of shooting practice, though," Anderson sighed. "Your aim almost made me cry, and I'm not a sentimental man."

Hans shook his head.

"No, no, no. I'll be busy with the new subsystem."

"There are twenty four hours in a day," Anderson continued calmly. "A man like you needs six-seven hours of sleep. I'll be generous and give you an hour to shower and eat. We'll start on Thursday."

Hans sighed and fell back.

"Shit. And the weekend was going to be so nice."

He disheveled his hair and rubbed his face getting rid of the tension.

"I can't even play _Diablo_ , the aim always drifts to the right."

Clint returned from the pilot's, leaned on the back of Anderson's chair and rested his chin on the crossed hands.

"You can play chess. It takes a lot of time to kill there. And the aim doesn't matter."

"I agree," Anderson shrugged.

"Ok, I'll connect you to the net in a sec." Hans reached out for the laptop.

Clint and Anderson stared at each other.

"He must have had a terrible childhood in front of a computer screen."

"His only toys were made of pixels," Barton agreed.

He looked at Hans with something like pity in his eyes and pulled a plastic box with a chess magnetic board out of his hip pocket.

 

* * *

 

The phone rang shrilly. As shrilly as it could get only on Saturday morning. Natasha groaned helplessly and ignoring Clint's voice asked the universe, "Is this called a weekend? Do tell where the weather will be great tomorrow according to Coulson."

The universe ignored her as usual. Clint smirked and crawled into the bed hugging Natasha with one hand and using her as a pillow.

"It was my armourer from Edinburgh. He just finished creating a new arrowhead for me and wanted to tell me all about it."

Natasha cracked one eye open and looked at the clock.

"At five a.m.? He can put it where the sun don't shine."

"Nat, that's cruel. The arrowhead is a explosive one."


End file.
